


Perditus

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5161364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>t his is like 10000% darker than i had intended lmao sorry content warning, dubcon, intimated cchild abuse? technically not underage but within earshot, stan just utterly fucking suffering</p>
<p>this was going to be a series but *does a handstand* it occured to me i fucking suck at assembling a cogent narrativeawwwoooooowoowowooo</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Perditus; _Latin (adj) lost, ruined, desperate, abandoned, outcast (n) wretch_

[If you see me dancing in some caberet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIzYbV8ZhvI)  
[that's just my way of forgetting you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIzYbV8ZhvI)  
[While you were the one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIzYbV8ZhvI)  
[there's a new one each day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIzYbV8ZhvI)  
[but that's just my way of forgetting you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIzYbV8ZhvI)

He had five dollars; the clothes on his back plus the jacket and socks stuffed by someone into his duffel (not Ford, he thought urgently, riot, typhoon, blind by tears, not Ford); some candy, some chips, and mercifully, the asylum of his car (a third a tank of gas, thinned picnic blanket recovered from the pit of the trunk, a mummified wasp, ghostly brindle in the upholstery where Carla McCorkle once mewed under his timid ministration, crumbs and scum, paddle ball and disco gold glittering marble, Ford's odor -- astringent soap and eraser rubber, the milky mark in the passenger seat window where Ford liked to rest his temple, the echo of their rambunctious laughter and comfortable quiet) and that was absolutely all, all in the world after his own skin.

So he drove to the sea -- he always did this when he thought he might cry, only tonight Ford wouldn't pursue to soothe him with toffee and calming palms and beautiful platitudes (except he might -- mighn't he?) So he crushed himself into the slipshod driftwood shrine he'd once put up on the sheer stone crests as a child (with his brother, his brother, mousy, gentle Ford, who once talked their father down from beating him to death,) tucked up like larvae in the bed of trash and odoriferous sand out of the draft of the oppressive night, he remembered when he'd hold Fords hand (thin, cool, soft against the sinew and calluses Stan boasted even as a tiny child) to draw Ford out of the scholarly solitude he wanted to fester in, to lead him, to reassure him, his big brother who was so shy and loved him so much, who looked down at him in his misted upturned eyes and closed the curtain. Stan did cry. It was cold.

He sat up before the sun, abruptly from a dream of a sparrow struggling against gusts of a blizzard and hit his head on a limping salt-eaten beam -- he looked all around in alarm, blinking in the myrtle dark ununderstanding, looking for his blanket, his brother, before he remembered -- he kicked the corroded beam until the entire wreck tumbled down around him -- cutting his arms, cracking on his bowed head, putting up a stinking plume of silt and soured memory in the dim green dawn -- before descending into a sort of serene despair absolutely alien to him. The sun was a dull egg at the apex of stone-still sea. Ford hadn't come.

His money went so fast. He bought a quilt, a thicker coat (the nightmarish cold he'd endured had consumed an essential childish lobe in him -- the betrayed faith his family would protect him) -- he fed his car -- he bought a lot of candy for breakfast, pizza for lunch, a burger for dinner, he played pinball and pretended he was going home at eight, and when it occurred to him to find a motel at which to stay the night, he found he didn't have enough.

He'd always sort of enjoyed at the way adults slit their eyes at him. He thought they found him raffish, wild, cool. Now, returning to his car beneath the disinterested eye of the suspicious motel clerk, he only felt withered with humiliation and very young.

He lay his heavy head on the sequence of his knuckles gripping fast the wheel. He wanted to go home. His mother would let him in, wouldn't she? At least, she'd give him some food -- some money for food -- his brother, at least, would --

It was the thought of Ford (Ford's narrowed mouth, taut temple, empty eyes when he shut closed the curtain) that steeled him. He left the town he was born that night. He drove and drove in a narrow fervid rush, radio static and rainbow of gray, until he began blinking out of the waking world, when he pulled over to the sludgy shoulder in the ribbon umbra of a desolate overpass and dozed on the heater until a patrolman shined a light in his eyes and told him he'd be taken in if he didn't move along.

He wandered in this daze for some miserable days -- he afforded some more candy and one cardboard boat of fries he ate off his lap as he drove determinedly north up the featureless thoroughfare, he slept parked in the dark of lots and parks, shivering in his quilt and dreams of being very small -- when his gas and funding ran completely dry, he was a state away, nowhere he'd ever been before -- he had, he thought viciously, leaning on the cold hood of his inert tin caravel eating around blossoms of mold on a slice of bread he'd lifted from a dumpster beyond a gas station grocery, finally escaped.

He wasn't quite eighteen, but he looked younger still -- he was large, tall and broad, very muscular in his thick, buoyant, boyish way, but his face was soft, sensitive and intuitive, uncertain smile, childish eyes -- his shivering unsure hands, his tripping coltish gait, the fine fit rosy breadth of his candid collar and shoulders -- perhaps, as he thought, the city he hid in was older, colder, unkinder than the nest -- or perhaps he was only never out late or long enough to experience something that exists wherever human men do.

He was creeping up the long blue shadow of some industrial assembly complex to the den of his car, jealously drinking half a soot-black banana he'd discovered trodden on in the gutter (the closest to waifish he'd ever been, filthy, pale, his hair as long as it'd been as a child) when a beautiful new car pulled up alongside him and slowed to crawl that matched his pace -- as Stan stiffly strode imperceptibly quicker, the mirrored window drew down and an adult's hoary voice in the fragrant dark called him "sweetheart," and asked him, "How much?"

Stan (faint with hunger, numb with cold, and very, very nervous) scowled ferociously and flipped him the bird -- the man called him stinging things and pealed away, leaving Stan choking in exhaust and finding himself (astonished at himself) wishing he had considered -- at least considered, just considered -- going with that disgusting man in his beautiful, clean, warm car.

He probably would have fed him, Stan thought fitfully, redoubling his coat tighter about his shoulders against the razor edge of vicious wind. At least he'd have given him money for food. He thought of his mother's hamburgers. Ford could never finish his -- he'd slip half on Stan's plate when their father turned to fill his whiskey. His mother'd always make Stan's plates extravagantly large (Stan was extravagantly large) -- piles of fried potatoes and boiled vegetables she'd insist, insist, insist he'd eat -- he thought of all the limp spinach he'd spooned into Ford's napkin (grinning and giggling, playfully prodding pontifically frowning Ford) and experienced a jarring thrust of pain he couldn't account for with his hunger.

Sleeping at all hours, wrong hours, almost never eating caused days to smear into a panorama of purposeless behavior -- napping, hiding, scrounging, very occasionally eating, being ill, begging when he dared, and little else. Somewhere below a canopy of lurid electric lights ending with -ville, Stan faded away for a while in a merciful beam of sunshine beneath a tree in a threadbare square park until the afternoon -- he found nothing in the caged trash receptacles, not even wax paper which had contained fast food to lick clean -- swallowing with trouble his pride he stood a while at a street corner, putting out his hand to passerby to fill with pennies until he saw the frowning (particularly familiar) officer approaching -- he fled, he hid a while (furious at how afraid he was) in the mausoleum of his car, tucked into an alley obscured by a boarded up bar, until the dark brought cold which would settle in him if he held still -- he went out, wrapped up, diffused and faint, feeling asleep, to look again for garbage.

This time, that night, the car that paused by him was only moderately new, only nice -- that night, the man (older, more conventional, perhaps more moral) seemed abashed, unsure -- he laughed a little at himself like he was prepared to pass off his proposition as a joke -- but Stanley had prepared for this -- he wasn't able to winningly smile, like he'd practiced, but only loped around and hopped in the door opposing the driver, who looked him up and down appraisingly, grinned in a way Stan didn't recognize, didn't like at all, and drove him up a few blocks (he was literally living under these people!) to his apartment.

It was so warm. It smelled so familiar, so familiar, wholesome human skins and the slurred residues of many conflicting meals -- Stan realized, apathetically, he stank. He might of been frightened but he moved as through a colorless mist -- a dominating dreamy weariness -- he only did what he was told, led like a lamb limping through a hall of butter-yellow electric light to a big blue bed in a narrow blue room (it smelled so good! It was so warm!) where he sat impassively where he was put and wished for something to eat. It was so warm.

The man insisted on undressing him, casting aside his jacket and peeling his shirt (Stan winced to see it was drastically discolored) inside out over his head like a child -- Stan saw with a shock his ribs -- the man, standing over him (seeming so tall) touched Stans cheek, his chin, his collar, the auburn down between his pectorals, his chest, cuddling and cupping it like a girls breasts, which was really, really weird -- Stan turned strawberry red to the tips of his protuberant ears and the man laughed unkindly at him -- ridiculously, Stan thought of the Orion of scarlet acne on his chin and wanted to hide his face in his hands.

The man tried only once to touch him between the legs -- Stan leapt away in alarm and he seemed to think better of it. Instead he put Stan's (shivering, unsure) hand on the robust lump in the front of his trousers and instructed, in brisk gestures and curt words, Stan rub it -- so he did. The mans hands were disgustingly moist and warm on Stan's neck, his prickling naked shoulders -- (Stan should deck him, put his lights out, take his wallet and his car, he could, he could) -- the man pushed him over, crawled over him, kneeling over Stan's face he extricated himself, and it was hooded, purplish, and ugly -- he rubbed it insistently on Stan's cheek, smearing something to his wincing lips, which were forced open by the man's thick, sticky fingers -- the head of his prick Stan licked timidly, and shuddered.

Stan had comforted himself by thinking the man looked ordinary -- he looked nice -- he rather looked like the butcher his mother bought from, homely and pleasant -- he was wrong, he thought, (he should call -- who? His mother? The police? They'd arrest _him_ ) as the man crushed his head between his knees, forced apart his jaw, imposed his organ past the tender shell of his pallet, the wings and teardrop of scarlet flesh at his siphons too far, too fast, harming him -- "You like the taste of that?" -- the flailing fledgling of Stan's tongue crushed against the horrible hot mineral cylinder, cut against his teeth, the yarn of his jaw onerously distended, the mans damp testicles pressed against his chin, Stan tried to gasp and realized with singular horror he couldn't breathe -- "Watch the teeth, I haven't paid you, yet," -- the mans hand was stroking his throat and Stan thought in a paralyzed instant of electrifying terror he was going to throttle him before realizing he was only feeling the bulge of his cock distending his esophagus -- Stan was prepared to sock the son of a bitch in the eye when he withdrew, letting precious silver-sweet air seep in around the prick rested like a shushing finger across Stans wincing lips, and Stan coughed miserably as the man chuckled.

"New to this, huh?" he asked, wiping a profusion of sticky spit and something else across Stan's cheek with his thumb. Stan wanted to glower at him but -- just -- he really, really, really needed the money. He only nodded.

"Cute," the man commented -- his hand was winded in Stan's hair, he realized, as he lurched to his side, dragging Stan by the roots with him -- while the man gripped Stan's ears to stab him (again and again and again and again) with his horrible bludgeon-like cock (it tasted terrible, so dirty, so _personal_ , like the smell of his house) Stan remembered vividly once, one Saturday when he was very small, his father (who had been drinking since eight in the morning) stopped him as he toddled past his favorite chair (oak and gold, an eyeless idol in a pillar of brilliant sunshine) -- his father picked him up, his father sat him on his knee, his father who was in Stanley's eyes as awesome and terrible as the living Lord pressed Stanley gently to his chest and patted his back and kissed his hair, and Stan remembered so well, so well, his heart clamoring almost outside its parameters -- his father replaced him so gently, so gently on the floor and told him in the kindest voice Stan'd ever heard him use (would ever hear him use) to go play, and be good.

The man's semen was a texture not dissimilar to rotting vegetables -- it smelled similar, too, fetid and hot -- it inflated Stan's cheeks and stung his sinuses, so much, so much, a noxious squall which seemed to fill him to his eyes -- the man forced it flush against the tender florid end of Stan's struggling gullet, plugging it, forcing him to swallow or drown. He felt its slippery, stinking heat suffusing his stomach. He was afraid he'd vomit, afraid it'd stay down.

The man let Stan go (torturous hours) and let Stan roll away, urgently gasping (he couldn't seem to close his mouth properly, he couldn't recall how his teeth fit together, he couldn't calm his riotous nausea or saliva from running but he didn't cry,) and nearly inhaling the wadded fifty dollar bill the man inserted in his mouth.

"You need practice," the horrible, horrible, horrible man told him. He was sitting up, smoking, withered prick a white worm in a dark wet bed of soil. Stan could still sock him. He was confident he could kill him with only his fists, if he needed to. In the sterile silence Stan (shivering, resisting the amazing luxury of the clean and sweet-smelling sheets) rolled over, halved himself, and told a story about how he put down that evil man -- he found in the house a spilling over lockbox (a treasure chest, gold coins and rubies) he brought home beaming to his mother (she kissed him, dressed his skinned knees, exclaimed oaths and affectionate reprehension at his state,) his father, the baby (it cooed and crooned in his arms, it'd missed him bitterly,) the other -- they embraced him, held him up, carried him home, where he washed, rested, ate -- he slept beautifully, dreamlessly, in his cot in his room and woke to (his brother's) sound.

"It's my birthday," Stan said very softly.

"What the fuck are you still doing here?" the man demanded -- he applied the broad sole of his foot to Stan's shoulder and shoved him sprawling to the floor. "My wife is coming home. You got your money. Get out."

The first thing Stan ever stole was a loaf of white bread in a cellophane sack he saw on the kitchenette counter as he fled the man's home. Walking towards the neon motel sign brazen on the horizon of the dingy, consuming dark, he ate voraciously, one slice after another, but couldn't enjoy it at all -- he could only taste the man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this emoticon ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ in size 10000 font

[Nobody wants me, I'm blue, somehow ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEMLjnAi8kU)  
[won't someone hear my plea?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEMLjnAi8kU)  
[Come take a little chance with me ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEMLjnAi8kU)  
[because I'm nobodys baby now.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEMLjnAi8kU)  
  
The blue-eyed man (he'd once introduced himself but Stan intentionally, sensibly never remembered names) in his fine blue clothes and pocket thick with beautiful cash brought him a paper bag containing a long amber bottle (half empty) a sandwich, an apple, a carton of chocolate milk (Stan prickled at being treated like a little kid but drank voraciously any way) and sitting smoking by the tiny, chintzy bed Stan pickled in told him he was getting too old.  
  
"I'm eighteen," Stan said incredulously.  
  
"That's too old," he said -- the remark was frank but not quite unkind -- he passed his hand over Stans emergent jaw, the tender cleft of his sternum where hair grew in greater and greater profusions, his malumal limbs and abdominals which persisted beneath the voluptuous lobes of pubescent plumpness, "you aren't selling like you did last year. You won't sell so well for a few months, soon not at all."  
  
"Are you saying I got to leave?" Stan asked. He didn't dare raise his voice but it was thin and stiff with acrimony.  
  
The blue-eyed man exhaled a plume of pale smoke in Stans face (it smelled like garbage and raw wood) and looked a while at him (Stan having successfully smothered the shame in him aware only in a small way of his nudity) offering the blunt, which Stan declined (the pinched acrid skin of his long hand sallow in the dim electric light, very ugly) and sat forward with plain intent.  
  
"Not yet," he said, "but soon."  
  
"Where will I go?" Stan asked himself out loud, but the blue-eyed man replied:  
  
"Don't know, but you can't stay here."  
  
His hand was high on Stans thigh, strained to encircle it, a pale garter cut into the ruddy plumpness -- he shook it firmly to watch it wiggle. Stan's sigh (arid and hardly audible) sounded like an old mans. He didn't withdraw. He didn't dare.  
  
Stan drank hardily (he didn't wince, he hardly even tasted it any more) as the man hung over him -- the mattress depressed, fled from him like a flowering seawave -- the man kneeling between his thighs insistently parted, pushed him over, arranged Stan like a doll in his soft, clean, paper-white hands, prodding, pushing, (he had been killed already then many times; laid out on the altar, knives and swords put in him, turned inside out and filled with bitter bad water) Stan was stuffed with him, and he was grateful the man kept his hands to himself, grateful he put his cock in him gradually, considerately, not so quickly he'd rip -- the man patted his belly in a nearly friendly way and bent double to touch mouths, bloating Stan with foul-smelling smoke, and Stan was grateful for that, too, he guessed -- he pinched the unopened pansy of Stans penis (cut, plump, brief but robust, pretty popular), gripped Stans substantial and yielding buttocks in both his hands (it hurt where he crossed the sore floridity defining many other fingers and thumbs but not very much, Stan could stand it) he wouldn't be out on the street again, he just fucking wouldn't, he'd promised he'd never wake that way again, swooning, moonsick, drinking from storm drains and hallucinating the end of the world -- he'd sooner never wake again -- he drank and drank -- the mans thin, fair, hairy hips audibly crashed into Stan, he called him "baby," he spilled with stuttered exclamations his magmatic miasma in Stans abraded and barren intestines which crawled away in displeasure -- he hung on Stan, hugging him (his hands dimpled Stans shoulders, soothed the nascent cinnamon down which bled there, the truncheon of his chin on Stans collar bothered him) then let him go -- disentangled, he stood, wiped clean his offending organ and shut it away. Stan sat up on the bedboard and ate an apple.  
  
"Don't push your hair back like that any more," the blue-eyed man instructed (only a little out of breath, dabbing his dewy forebrow) he drew Stans fringe down, combing it in his fingers and arranged it fussily around Stans temple, "this looks much nicer."  
  
Stan didn't resist, but he hated it. He wished he would bring him caramel or chocolate or toffee, but he was encouraged to lose weight. He was a little drunk.  
  
"And for Chrissakes," the hateful man persisted, pausing in putting on his coat to pat Stans cheek briskly, something very like a slap, his awful silt-soft palm, "go wash it before the rush, would you? You smell like shit."  
  
Stan thought about the baby, his baby. It was sensitive, spooked easily, really sweet -- it loved when Stan tickled it, when he sat it on his hip as he did his chores, when he sang -- did it miss him? He couldn't help but wonder if his dad was still raising his voice abruptly and alarming it -- if his mother was forgetting to test the temperature of its formula on her wrist, to roll it on its tummy when it began to doze, to tuck in next to it the babys favorite fuzzy yellow duck...  
  
He set aside the skeletal insides of the apple with the rest of the refuse (cigarette ends, condom wrappers, deliquescing jewels of suckled candy) on the painted crate against his bed that served as his table, chair, and cupboard. He'd better wash. He'd get hit if anyone complained.  
  
There was no need to lock the door to the narrow whitewash alcove described as his room (he didn't own one thing) and no way to. Barefoot and barely clad, he passed in suffocating quiet a phantasmal tall man, only dimly visible in his solemn black raiment and the decayed light secluded by the slender hall, standing in an open door -- the man looked suspiciously around at him with only one eye until he was drawn into the room by an absolutely minuscule hand Stan looked uncomfortably away from.  
  
The girl from the room a few doors down was there, shut into the gloomy communal shower, beneath a canopy of pungent mist, folded up nude and wet on the tiled floor close to the chipped and discolored floor mirror, surrounded by open pots of cosmetics and examining a spinel pustule burgeoning in her chin. She was pretty, and when she caught over her reflections shoulder Stans eye, he reddened and shyly smiled. He felt breathless when the smile was returned.  
  
"Come here," she said, and her voice was so small, so high, so sweet and pretty Stan couldn't understand it -- he did, shutting the door behind him, and her hand (so small, like a dolls! the nails bright and opaque, a color like teacups!) popped up like a crocus to him, and in it, Stan saw a scarlet pill like a bud of crystallized blood, and the extremely pretty and beautiful-smelling girl (the clumps of her long, long, starless hair, her breasts Stan was terrified by), distractedly stimulating individual pores in the agitated jasper wings of her nose, asked him "want one?"  
  
"What is it?" Stan asked.  
  
She smiled, smiled, her teeth were crooked but bright white, Stan liked her so much -- "try it. It'll be fun."  
  
He did; it wasn't. 


End file.
